Sacrifice
by Firebirdie
Summary: In which Vette takes one for the team.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Absolutely 10000% gen, part of the same 'verse as "Firewall" (currently available only on my AO3 because FFN is allergic to fun formats), set somewhere in the nebulous period between SW Act 1 and Act 2.

Enjoy.

**o.O.o**

**Chapter 1**

**o.O.o**

"You're asking one of us to _what?_"

"Accompany me to a social function in honor of my cousin's recent promotion."

Vette, Quinn, and Jaesa exchange a series of significant glances. Vette scrunches up her face and says, "Yeah, we got that part, but can you go over the location and the guest list one more time? I got a little distracted by my common sense screaming _hell no._"

Evren looks shifty. "It's in Kaas City, at the family estate. A number of Imperial officers will be present, along with their spouses. And, erm, several Sith." He raises his hands against Vette and Jaesa's half-formed protests, expression verging on the desperate. "Most of them are my relatives!"

"With respect, my lord," Quinn says carefully, "that is not exactly a ringing endorsement of their stability."

"I don't kill people because they're annoying, or because they don't bow fast enough, or because it's funny and I'm bored. Most of them don't, either." He hesitates, then continues, "And while Aunt Meliah may be a vicious sadist with all the restraint of a rabid gundark, she'll be surrounded by people she can't legally murder, so really, I think things could be much, much worse—"

"Yeah, no, we are not going anywhere near your clan of evil murder-aunties, thanks," Vette says.

He winces. "All right, yes, it's an utter catastrophe waiting to happen," he says, "but you can't just leave me to their tender mercies!"

"Oh, yes we can," says Jaesa, pitiless. Vette knew there was a reason she liked her.

"Please," Evren begs. He does the Sad Eyes, big and blue and pathetic, looking between the three of them. Vette's almost—_almost_—moved. Jaesa seems to waver for a minute, then goes all steely and resolved. Quinn has his inscrutable face on, but Vette thinks he might be cracking.

"You've followed me into battle a hundred times," Evren says, low and earnest. "You've faced certain death and come out alive and unharmed. You are some of the most skilled and worthy people I've ever known. I would not ask this of you if I didn't believe you were more than capable of surviving a Sith dinner party." He gives the three of them a quick once-over and zeroes in on Quinn like a small fluffy animal sensing the potential for ear-scritches, or possibly more like a predator sensing weakness in something tender and juicy. Hard to tell, with him. He pins Quinn with the full force of the Sad Eyes. "Three hours, that's all it would be."

Quinn opens his mouth. And Vette is just about to cry, here, this is pitiful, this is going to be a disaster because Quinn is a fragile and vulnerable soul who cannot be expected to refuse the Sad Eyes even if he were inclined to refuse anything a superior officer asked of him—

No. This will not stand. A whole house full of Evrens with all of his scary-as-hell Force powers and none of his ridiculous if shaky sense of honor? They'll eat Quinn alive. Quinn is good at killing people, saving people from otherwise deadly injuries, flying ships, and being blisteringly efficient at everything. He is _not_ good at dealing with mystical wizard-warriors who can crush his windpipe with their brains. Or rather, he's only good at dealing with them by total compliance, and that's just—no. She can't let him relapse; he's reached the point where he can sometimes make backhanded comments at obnoxious Sith when he has moral support and she is not going to let all that hard work go to waste thanks to Evren's evil aunts.

Damn it. "Ugh, fine, I'll go."

For some reason, everybody's suddenly staring at Vette. She blinks a few times. "What?"

Jaesa takes her hand and looks at her with the kind of grave solemnity usually reserved for law enforcement officers knocking on the door of a fallen comrade's spouse to deliver bad news. "Your courage will be remembered," she says, squeezing Vette's fingers, then dropping them like live wires and fleeing for the medbay or wherever the hell she hangs around when she's not pretending to be a cackling Sith apprentice.

Quinn says, "Well, if you insist," and then he says, "If we're done here, my lord, I really ought to recalibrate the _Maelstrom_'s defense turrets." He, too, vanishes, without waiting for an actual dismissal. Wow, progress!

It occurs to Vette that she's just been abandoned. Evren is obviously trying not to laugh. She glares at him and pokes at his sternum. "If I find out that you _meant_ for this to happen, you are in for a galaxy of torment," she hisses.

"I can say with complete honesty that I had no idea you were going to volunteer," he says. Snickers, more like.

"I hate you. We're dressing up, right?"

"It's a formal occasion, so yes."

She considers, then nods decisively. "We're going shopping."

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I'm using the dark side endgame name for the Inquisitor, even though mine is fairly LS. The light and neutral versions just don't do it for me. (Imperius? Really? Do they hang out with Darth Cruciatus and Darth Kedavra?)

Also, this chapter contains the following possibly-triggery material: past abuse, scars, slavery, implied torture, and brief acephobic remarks. If I've missed anything, let me know and I'll add it. Mostly it's your standard Star Warsy badness; if you're okay with SWTOR, you'll probably be okay with my fics. Stay safe!

**o.O.o**

**Chapter 2**

**o.O.o**

All in all, the party goes fine for the first two hours. Evren's cousin, the newly-minted Lieutenant Valda, gives a little speech that has Vette nodding off halfway through; congratulations are offered, with a side of snide disdain from a few of the Force-sensitives because it's not like normal people ever do anything interesting or useful, obviously; food and drink are distributed; unobtrusive music is played.

Vette is surprised by how much people aren't taking issue with her being here. She's one of five non-humans out of a group of maybe fifty—and three of the others are purebloods. Granted, she's sticking close to Evren, who provides a buffer against speciesist jerks because, y'know, _Sith_. She can mostly enjoy her puff pastries without fearing for her life or freedom. She never quite relaxes, but that's just good policy when surrounded by Imperials.

Evren's non-Sith relatives aren't too bad, to be honest. Valda gives her an odd look, but doesn't say anything, possibly taking his cue from Evren's very pointed smile. A couple of the more distant cousins—Vette forgets their names in the whirl of new faces and just thinks of them as Nice Hat and Eyebrows—draw them into a conversation about archaeological projects to which Vette can actually contribute. Which she does, and while Nice Hat seems to forget she exists when she's not speaking, Eyebrows looks thoughtful and asks her to elaborate.

She and Evren eventually find themselves in a quiet spot near a column, taking a breather from interacting with people. It's . . . nice. Not having to talk. Vette usually feels like she has to fill up silences with chatter, but this—not so much.

_Did I accidentally get comfortable hanging out with a Sith Lord?_

What has her life turned into.

And then, of course, someone interrupts the pleasant lull with a murmured, "Well, well, well."

The woman is definitely a Straik—she's got the dark skin, black hair, and sharp features shared by about half the people in the room. Her facial tattoos are more intricate and extensive than most, though, and her eyes are _red_, bright bloody red, the flesh around them webbed with tiny discolored capillaries. So—deep in the dark side, then, and loving every minute of it. Great.

"Darth Meliah," Evren says, bowing low. He's completely expressionless, and every alarm bell in Vette's head is suddenly screaming, because the only times she's ever seen him go blank like this have been when Baras is at his scariest.

Vette tries not to think too loudly.

"Evren," Meliah says, her voice rich and musical. "It's been so long since our last meeting; how _have_ you been?"

"Well enough, my lord."

Meliah reaches out to pat his cheek in the most patronizing mockery of familial affection Vette has ever seen. He flinches, blanks out again. Meliah smiles. "Your master speaks very highly of you. I must admit, I was surprised. Gratified, of course, that all my efforts were not in vain, but surprised. Perhaps Korriban taught you what I could not, after all."

"Your teachings have served me well, my lord," Evren says.

Meliah laughs. It's not a nice laugh. "Apparently you have forgotten my lessons on manners, boy. Introduce me to your . . . companion." She lingers over the word like it's something dirty. Which is nothing new; stars know they get plenty of people who see _Sith Lord and cute Twi'lek_ and draw a completely logical conclusion. But—ugh. The day Vette doesn't have to deal with people assuming she's somebody's damn sex toy . . .

Evren keeps his game face on. "Apologies, my lord. May I present my trusted associate, Ve—"

"Does this mean you've finally overcome your unfortunate aversion to the pleasures of the flesh?" Meliah asks.

Of course. It's not about Vette. She's just a prop in Meliah's little power game. What a fracking treasure this woman is. But when the options are being dismissed as a non-person or being the focus of attention for a Darth even _Evren_ won't snark at . . . yeah, neither are great, but she'll take the one with the slightly higher survival chance.

Which would be fine, except for the fact that it leaves her friend in the wind.

Frack.

And then: salvation. "Am I the only one here who finds this fascination with your relatives' sex lives somewhat . . . unseemly?" a new voice breaks in as a broad-shouldered woman in dark robes saunters towards them. There's a double-bladed lightsaber hilt at her side, and—Vette's eyes widen—the upper half of her face is a mess of scars. Slave brands.

Meliah doesn't quite grit her teeth, but she comes close. "Ah. Darth Nox. How wonderful to see you again."

"Isn't it just?" Nox looks at Evren. "Lord Straik—I recall you arrived on Korriban shortly before I left for my apprenticeship. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Such a meteoric rise might threaten those unsure of their position."

Evren's eyes widen just a fraction. Meliah visibly fights down the urge to stab something, settling on general seething hatred barely disguised for propriety's sake. Vette stifles a laugh. Score one for the new girl.

"May I ask what brings you here, Nox?" Meliah grinds out.

"Oh, I'm with Captain Dreyallon over there," Nox says airily, gesturing at a young woman in uniform surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. "Lovely girl. We're not right for each other, unfortunately, but she was kind enough to invite me along, and I thought this would be a splendid opportunity to meet other promising young Dark Lords." She inclines her head in Evren's direction. "You have potential; I'll have to keep an eye on your progress."

"I'm flattered," he says faintly.

"_So_ glad we had the chance to chat, Meliah," Nox says, and the next thing Vette knows she's being tugged away by Nox's arm through hers, Evren on her other side, and then they're across the room in the shelter of a potted plant.

Nox lets go of them. "Well," she says. "That was interesting."

"I—you—thank you?" Evren manages.

"No, seriously, thanks," Vette says, with feeling.

Nox grins. "Always a pleasure to make the old guard squirm." She sobers, then, and looks at Vette. "Although . . . she may seek to strike back. Will you be all right? You're her most likely target."

Is that actual concern for her welfare? Weird. Welcome, but weird. "Don't worry about it," says Vette. "She tries anything, I'll be ready. Besides, I've got backup." She bumps her shoulder against Evren's; some of the tension bleeds out of him, and his lips twitch a little.

"Of course," he says.

"For the record," Nox says, "you also have the favor of a rather highly-regarded member of the Dark Council."

"If I may ask . . . why concern yourself with us? Not that I'm ungrateful for your assistance; I merely—"

"Because I know what you are."

Evren goes still. He might actually have stopped breathing.

Nox sighs and waves a hand. She keeps her voice low as she says, "I know what it is to long for change. A better Empire. A . . . kinder one." She wrinkles her nose. "And doesn't that sound trite when said aloud. But in any case—I know what patterns to look for, even if my colleagues see only what they expect to see. Because of course it's not mercy. It's indebting one's enemies, it's efficiency, it's cruel dismissal. Of course you have something far more sinister planned."

Okay, serious moment, but Vette can't resist. "Oh, yeah, real sinister—peace, love, and rainbows."

Evren inhales shakily, then rounds on her. "I told you not to reveal Phase Four!" he hisses. And—_yes_. Back in business. That's her Snark Lord of the Sith.

"I'll leave you both to your machinations, then," says Nox. "Good luck out there." She winks at them and glides away, vanishing into the throng.

**o.O.o**

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** The aftermath. Slightly angsty but mostly fluffy. Enjoy.

**o.O.o**

**Chapter 3**

**o.O.o**

When it's all over and they've returned to the _Maelstrom_, Vette pulls on normal-person clothing, scrubs the makeup off her face, and wanders into the main room. She rolls her neck and rubs at the rough spot over her vertebrae. It's been months since the shock collar came off, but the skin still prickles sometimes, even if there aren't visible marks anymore. Those things are built for lasting hurt. A steady supply of kolto has been helping, though.

Evren's fiddling with the holoprojector settings with the look of a guy who isn't paying nearly enough attention to what he's doing. If their next call from Darth Baras comes through sparkly yellow, Vette will not be surprised. He glances up as she walks in, straightening with a faint frown. "Feeling all right?"

"Yeah," she says. "Just tired, I guess. Sith shindigs are tough."

"This one was relatively painless," Evren says, "mostly thanks to you."

"Make that Iridonian spicy sautee stuff sometime in the next few days and we'll call it even."

He sweeps out a flourishy bow. "It will be done."

Score. Maybe this time they'll even convince Quinn to try it. Jaesa hopped on the kitchen-experiments train pretty fast after joining them, but Quinn would probably be content to subsist on ration bars, distilled water, and patriotism if left to his own devices.

They go quiet for a minute. It's late; the _Maelstrom_'s on its night cycle, lights dim, engines thrumming softly in the background. Weird and stressful as the evening was, Vette's starting to get her balance back. Evren, though . . . He's still in full armor, for a start.

"Can I ask you a sort of personal question?" Vette says, leaning against the bulkhead.

He perches on the edge of the holoprojector and folds his arms. She's not sure if that's defensive or just for convenience's sake. "By all means."

"And, uh, you don't have to answer if you don't want to. I was just wondering. About, um, your aunt. Why you're so afraid of her."

Evren's expression darkens. "Ah." He makes an abortive gesture, like he's about to raise a hand to the scar around his throat, only he stops before it can go anywhere and crosses his arms more tightly, ducking his head a little. "My family tried to flee Imperial space when it became clear I was Force-sensitive. Meliah caught us. And . . . ensured I wouldn't forget what happens to traitors."

"Oh." And suddenly the total shutdown makes perfect sense. Vette coughs. "Sorry."

"Thank you," Evren says abruptly. "For coming along. She—enjoys flaunting her power over people. Having someone there, it—helped. So thank you."

"All I did was stand around and try not to piss myself," Vette says. "Nox was the one who—"

"But you were _there_."

What is she even supposed to do with this? "You do know that if you'd told us what was going on, we'd all have wanted to help, right? Even Quinn, and not because you outrank him."

"I know," Evren mumbles. He uncoils enough to press his fingers to his eyes. "I'm sorry. I just—it was stupid and selfish of me to ask anyway; any one of you would have been endangered, but—and I'm a bloody _Sith_, I can't afford to be _w_—"

"Whoa. No. No, no, no. Stop." Vette stands up and stalks forward until she has to crane her neck to glare at him. "One, yeah, it was a little dicey there for a minute, but I knew going in that this wouldn't be safe and I came along anyway. And two, needing a little backup to face someone who hurt you? That isn't weakness. That's . . . that's just _being a person with feelings_."

"Vette . . ."

Frack, Sad Eyes. Vette pulls out the big guns. "Do you want a hug?"

He gapes at her. "What."

Vette huffs impatiently. "Look, I don't know how good I actually am with this emotional stuff, but hugs help, sometimes."

". . . All right?"

It is, bar none, the most awkward hug of Vette's life. Evren has absolutely no clue how it works, where arms go, how to compensate for height differences, what to do with her lekku, _anything_. Which says a lot, actually, and none of it is very good. Easiest solution is lots of practice.

Vette thinks she'd be okay lending a hand there.

**o.O.o**

_end_


End file.
